Kiss the Stars (Devon Slaughter Book 1) (12 page)

ONE CURTAIN gaped
open and I saw the pinkish blue light of dawn. Lying on my side, I watched the
number four on my alarm clock turn into a five. 5:55. I’d only been asleep a
few hours.

I thought of Devon.

I loved the way
his hair fell into his eyes, his careless faded clothes, watching his muscles
flex. He was unreal. And at the same time more real than anything else in my
life.

I watched the
clock. The five turned into a six and then a seven and the alarm blared. I
groaned and got up.

I was surprised
to find a mess in my closet. Dr. Ess said messiness indicated chaos happening
in my mind and I should come in to see him about adjusting my meds.

Wouldn’t it be a
lot simpler just to do laundry?

Everything I
owned was supposed to be dry-cleaned but dry cleaning was bad for the
environment and I was afraid of the man at the dry cleaners. He always got a
mean glint in his eye when he saw me and once he’d given my clothes to someone
else.

In the back of
the closet, I found a clean pair of gray pants with a high vintage waist and
wide legs. I preferred dresses but I didn’t have a choice. I pulled on a short
sleeved baby blue sweater and managed to get on my pink Converse sneakers
without having to undo the laces. By the time I was done, my chest hurt and my
eyes watered, like I’d run a marathon.

In the kitchen,
I went to make coffee and found only a few beans in the bottom of the bag. I
stayed busy, doing laundry and hanging my dresses above the vent so they would
dry. I made a grocery list.

I put off
calling Dr. Ess. After all, it was Sunday. At eleven-oh-five, I set out to walk
to the market. These kinds of activities were highly recommended by Dr. Ess.

When I stepped
into the crosswalk, a car horn blared. I leaped back. On the sidewalk, my knees
began to quake. The car must have picked up speed. It had been at least a block
away when I started to cross. It felt mean, as if the driver hated pedestrians.

I turned and
headed home. The sun was too hot. Sweat trickled between my shoulder blades. I
was glad to see my car, so sturdy and pink.

When I got to
the market, the parking lot was jammed. I had to wedge the Cadillac into an
economy space. I usually shopped late at night when there were fewer people.

I ended up getting
a cart with defiant wheels. Since celery was at my elbow, I grabbed a bunch to
put in a plastic bag. By the time I’d forced the celery and its unruly leaves
into the bag, the whole front of my sweater was wet. Celery wasn’t even on my
list.

I wrestled with
the cart, and people veered away from me.

When I turned
into the breakfast aisle, I saw a tall woman up ahead—velour track suit,
familiar black pony tail swinging down her back.
Wong
. I hid behind a
pyramid of five grain cereal.

“Excuse me!
Miss?” a voice said, behind me. “Your cart is in the way.”

I turned to face
a glaring woman. When I backed up my cart, I dislodged a box of cereal. It fell
to the floor. Another followed. And another.

“Oh for
Pete
Sake,”
the woman seemed furious, as if I’d endangered countless innocent lives. “Yoo-hoo!
Do you work here?” she cried in a shrill voice, waving her hand in the air. “We
need help down here. The cereal is falling.”

I squatted,
picking up boxes two at a time. One last box hit the back of my head, before
landing on the floor. As I reached for it, a pair of Adidas came into my line
of vision. My gaze moved slowly upward. Wong peered down at me. “Hi, Ruby,” she
said.

I straightened,
managing to couch six cereal boxes in my arms.

Wong kicked the
rest aside, sweeping them neatly out of the way with her foot. “There you go,”
she said to the woman who scowled and moved down the aisle.

“You look
incredible,” Wong said to me.

“I do?” I put
the boxes in my cart. I could live off cereal for months and then I wouldn’t have
to come back to the store for a long time.

Wong said, “You’re
glowing. Did you do the Cayenne Pepper Fast, like Georgie?”

Whatever Georgie
did, I would be sure to do the opposite. “No.”

“Did you get
lucky with Mr. Tall Dark and Dangerous?” Wong said.

I gripped the
handle of my shopping cart and wondered how to answer.

“Sorry,” Wong
said. “It’s none of my business,” she punched me lightly on the arm. “But way
to go, tiger.”

A wave of
dizziness swept over me.

“Are you okay?
Ruby?”

I edged my cart
down the aisle. My mind spun in circles. When I stopped to grab a pound of
espresso beans, Wong did the same. “I love a dark oily bean,” she said.

“Well, it was
nice seeing you,” I struggled to get my cart nosed in the right direction. Wong
kept following me. I tried to give her the slip at the check stand but she got
in line too. I plucked a magazine off the stand. “Look,” I held it up. “Vegan
vampire attacks trees!”

“Ha ha,” she
said, like it wasn’t funny at all. “Did you get my email?”

The clerk beeped
the cereal boxes over the scanner.

“I don’t read
email. I don’t believe in it,” I picked up my groceries that all fit into one
paper bag.

“Well, aren’t
you fascinating,” Wong said.

I hurried to the
door and she was close behind. “Ruby, wait,” she caught me by the elbow and I
almost dropped my groceries.

“I’ve never had
a chance to tell you this,” she said. “The school library was a dead place
before you came. Students used it only when the weather was bad, to text or
play video games. Now I have your students asking for help tracking obscure
books, which I see them reading. I also see them writing. On their laptops,
even with pen and paper. And mostly, I hear them talking. About your classes.
That’s what I said in the email. I think you’re fantastic. And I’ve put your
name in for Teacher of the Year.”

I
turned
it over and over in my mind, as I drove home.
Teacher of the Year
.

I was flattered
and excited but also nervous about Georgie. I could see now, how it had all
gone wrong, why Georgie had cheated me out of my Literacy class, why she kept
stealing my parking space, why she hated me. After all, I was new. And so much
younger. It was my first teaching job. “Look at her,” I imagined people saying.
“So young and gifted.”

Meanwhile,
Georgie had celebrated her thirtieth birthday. My heart leaped with gleeful
vengeance. I slammed the car door.

After lining up
my cereal in the cupboard, I strode through the house in a cocky swagger. I
imagined accepting my award, wearing a black sheath dress and leopard print
gloves that covered my arms.

I heard
thunderous applause. I envisioned my students weeping when I gave my acceptance
speech. Georgie would boil with envy.

I BORROWED a
Ferrari from the blonde who took me for a midnight swim in her pool. I lifted
the keys from her counter on my way out the door. The car was silver, as sleek
and deadly as a bullet. There was a chance she’d never notice it missing and
there was a chance I wouldn’t make it past the city limits before the cops were
on me.

I yearned to
crash and burn.

But the drive
across the desert was uneventful. I passed only a few towns once I got outside
the city limits. I felt the temperature drop when I climbed into the mountains.
The waning moon slid in and out of the forest.

For miles, after
descending, I drove alongside the wide dark Columbia at 160 mph. On a stretch
with no other car in sight, I hit 200. The Ferrari didn’t break a sweat.

Dawn broke just
as I reached the Bridge of the Gods. I scrounged up a dollar to pay the toll
and went across slowly, looking down into the river below me. I was on the
familiar side of the Cascades, nearing home.

I drove beside
the Columbia again, only this time, I was in Washington. I turned onto a narrow
road. The old lodge rose up in front of me. Trees towered and swayed in the
breeze. Back in here, it was still dark. During camp, every morning, we used to
swim to the dock in the middle of the lake to get to the sun.

My hands
clenched on the steering wheel.

I knew the
regular staff lived in town during the off season but I figured a maintenance
crew must come regularly. I’d have to hide the car. I shifted down and bumped
off the road. I felt the tires grinding into soft dirt. If I got stuck, I’d
pull the car out by hand.

An image of Ruby
chewing her nails and watching me, as I changed her flat, reared in my mind. I
felt a twist of what resembled nostalgia.

I headed down
the trail. The early morning air was cool. There was a hunter’s shack a few
miles past where the trail ended. I’d sleep there until nightfall.

* * *

The shack had
been recently swept and a fresh supply of canned food was stacked on the
rickety table pushed into the corner. Wood was in the fireplace for the next
visitor. I lay down on the cot. Daylight brightened the sky through the windows.

The world was
utterly quiet. I slept.

When I woke, it
was the dark of night. I made sure the door was shut and went down to meet the
trail, passing by the log cabins that were once so familiar.

I crossed the
tennis courts, half looking for a ball to lob. I gazed up at the night sky,
closed in by trees. It was strange to stare into the vast universe with my
telescopic vision. Sometimes I got the feeling I was hurling through space and
infinity.

I tried to
remember Enid at thirteen. I couldn’t. I tried to summon how she’d made me feel
when I was thirteen. I couldn’t.

What had
happened to all of us?

The car was
still in its hiding place. No flats.

I drove back
across the Bridge of the Gods and headed for the city. The Gorge was dark and
mysterious and wet. When I neared Portland, lights glittered and multiplied,
smearing across the windshield. The wipers made a steady rhythm.

The next bridge
I crossed was Burnside. It spit me out downtown. I passed by Powell’s City of
Books and got another stab of nostalgia. I had a limp hope these flashes of
emotion meant I’d claw my way out of what I’d become.

Sooner or later,
something had to give.

I went the long
way around to avoid driving past my old neighborhood. I imagined walking
through the front door of my childhood home, waving, “Hey, Mom, hey Dad,” like
a scene straight out of
Pet Cemetery
.

Zadie’s parents
were professors. She’d grown up on the east side in a comfy old Victorian with
two little brothers underfoot and where I’d spent a lot of time. Enid’s house
wasn’t that far from my childhood home, though our house was closer in, a
sprawling Colonial with rose gardens. It was my mother’s ancestral home and it
was hard to fathom my parents ever leaving.

I went to Enid’s
house at the end of a quiet street where trees shielded the sedate lawns. The
house was a mid-century modern with a steep driveway. I’d gone there once for
Enid’s birthday party, in the phase where she was still trying to hold my hand.
I thought about how easy it had been to cut her off, despite the fact that we
went to the same school and lived only blocks from each other.

I drove by to
scope out the scene. There was a mini-van in the drive, parked behind a
Suburban. A pink child’s jacket lay on the lawn, under a bicycle.

I frowned. When
Enid had lived here with her mother, the house and lawn were immaculate. Now
the gray house needed a new paint job and the big vista windows were murky.
Surely, another family had moved in, I told myself. And yet, I felt a prickle
along my spine.

I parked down
the street, got out and glanced around. The rain had turned into a light mist.
The streetlamps were tall and cast a yellow light. A sign said, ‘Neighborhood
Watch,’ but the houses were far back, sheltered by trees, and it was late. I
doubted anyone watched.

I climbed up the
hill, becoming invisible as I went.

From the
distance of the next yard, I could look into the kitchen. A woman sat at the
counter. She was reading
Vogue
, turning the pages slowly (no wedding
ring) and smoking a cigarette. I smelled vanilla in the tobacco.

I looked closely
at the woman. She had nice even features but her lovely chin disappeared into
flesh. Her long hair (falling around her shoulders) was dark and shiny, the
same color Enid’s had been. I was pretty sure I was looking at Enid’s mother.
Despite her weight gain, she had aged well.

Many things went
through my mind. I had the terrible urge to talk to the woman I remembered as
Mrs. Grosling. I wanted to sit next to her and smoke one of her vanilla
cigarettes and shoot the shit. I knew I could learn something about myself by
listening to what she believed had happened to her daughter.

But I held back,
afraid of being recognized. I decided to wait for the right moment to slip
inside. I felt desire toward Enid’s mother, a sexy pull that struck me as
illicit, as if I was still thirteen and awkwardly human.

I scanned what I
could see of the room, looking for a security system. I found a tell-tale pad
with its glowing keyboard.

My gaze went
back to Enid’s mother. While I watched, she ground out her cigarette in a glass
ashtray, stood up and shook out her hair. I felt another surge of desire
watching the dark waves ripple down her back.

She wore tight
jeans. Like Enid, she had an hourglass shape, on a larger scale. When she
turned, her pillowy breasts jiggled, braless, inside a silk shirt with a wide
collar opened to show her cleavage.

She cracked the
window I looked through, and waved her hands, obviously trying to fan away
smoke. I thought of the child’s jacket on the lawn. She couldn’t have grandkids.
Enid had been an only child, like me. I supposed she could be a great aunt, or
the coat belonged to a neighbor kid. Maybe she babysat.

She moved out of
view, into the next room, leaving the window open. Jesus, people were careless.
I took the mossy path to the sliding glass doors. With the window open, I was
confident the alarm hadn’t been set. (I was no longer in the mood for a cop
chase.)

I gave the door
a quick jerk and snapped the plastic lock. Another jerk broke the stopper. I
paused to listen, and stole inside.

The living room
had a square stone fireplace and I remembered Enid opening her birthday gifts
in front of it. I had given her a set of rhinestone bracelets recommended by
the saleswoman at Nordstrom.

I heard movement
in a room down the hall. I recognized the soft brushing of cloth, the sound of
a zipper opening. I went down the wide hallway. There was a skylight overhead
and I glanced up at the black sky. You hardly ever saw the stars here.

I leaned against
the doorframe to watch her.

She pulled her
shirt over her head. Her back was to me and my eyes moved down as she wriggled
out of her jeans. A black butterfly emerged, faded. Enid and her mother had
matching tattoos?

Devon, you
fucking idiot.

She whirled
around and stared right at me, like Ruby had. It took all my strength to stay
invisible. Her breath caught, her eyes moved past me. She snatched her robe off
the bed. Her poor heart hammered like a racehorse.

I stepped out of
her way, as she hurried into the hall. She would find the broken lock and she’d
damn well better call the police.

I slipped out
the front. Enid had nothing to do with what had happened in Nicaragua. She was
just a woman approaching middle-age. It was probably her kid’s coat on the
lawn. How could I have been so stupid? If there was one thing I should have
figured out by now—I knew nothing.

The tires of the
Ferrari squealed. I hit the freeway headed east. The car ate up the miles and
the hole inside me opened wider.